Gospel Story Finder

Christmas away from home. My favorite gift was my first Christmas away from home, when my parents, sister, and I went to visit my brother and his family.
We were used to family Christmases at our house, but this year my other siblings were going elsewhere, and we decided to visit my brother, Josh, and his family because they couldn’t come home. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I thought that if we weren’t home for Christmas, it wouldn’t be fun. It seemed that Christmas just wouldn’t be the same. My parents, sister, and I had already opened our presents to each other before we left home.
When my brother picked us up at the airport, my four-year-old niece, Kialey, started to sing Christmas songs, and I started to feel better. On Christmas morning I enjoyed watching the faces of my nieces and nephews light up as they opened their presents. It was nice, instead of focusing on what I got, to look at others opening their presents and to feel their joy.Hannah S., Montana

Tobogganing was a great sport in my younger days, and the foothills above our house offered unlimited slopes for our favorite sport. Our only trouble was that we didn’t have a toboggan large enough to hold more than one person.
One day when I was about ten years old, two of my friends asked me if I would go with them to an abandoned shack high on the hill. Its sides were made of corrugated iron, but they just hung loose, flapping in the breeze. With one end turned up, what a perfect toboggan a piece of that shack would make!
I hurried home after school to get a hammer. The only one I could find belonged to my father’s dental laboratory equipment. Father was not at home, so I took the hammer and off I ran.
The snow was quite deep that winter and the daylight was short. We stayed longer than we had planned, and it began to get dark before we finished making our toboggan.
Finally we decided we’d better hurry home before it was too dark to see. There was no trail on the hill, and the snow came up above our knees. We started down on the run, jumping through the deep snow.
My hands were cold and half numb. All of a sudden I felt Father’s hammer slip through my fingers and fly into the snow behind me. I called to my friends to wait. They stopped to see what the trouble was, but soon they became impatient and insisted on going on.
I went back in my tracks to try and find the hammer, but it hadn’t even left a mark in the snow. I looked around frantically.
It was really getting dark now, and I was alone up on the hill in the deep snow. I knew I shouldn’t have taken my father’s hammer without his permission, for he needed the tool in his work. Now it was lost and I couldn’t find it!
As I sat in the snow, I was so sad and cold and lonely that I felt just like crying. Then I remembered how I had been taught that when I needed help, I could pray to our Heavenly Father—no matter where I was. I needed help, so I put my face in my hands and prayed with all my heart.
As I opened my eyes and rolled sideways to get up, my hand went down deep in the snow and touched something hard. I took hold of it and pulled it up through the snow. It was Father’s hammer!
I thanked our Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. Then I jumped up and hurried as fast as I could to catch up with the other boys who were way ahead of me.
As I caught up with them, I realized I had learned something of special importance that day—that we are never alone and that our prayers are heard and answered.

They sat together on the porch steps, so close that their moonshadow was a single wedge of blackness against the weathered wood. Tomorrow was the wedding, with all the excitement and confusion, tears and laughter. There would be no privacy then. But this quiet hour was their own.

She said, “Its peaceful, isn’t it?” She was watching the great stately clouds march over their heads and drop from sight into the quick-silver sea. He was watching her, and thought that he had never seen her so beautiful.

The wind blew; the waves made little hush, hush sounds, sighing against the sand. “You know,” she said, “I always wondered how I’d feel the night before my wedding. Scared or thrilled, or uncertain, or what.”

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly. She hugged his arm and put her face against his shoulder in the impulsive way she had. “Just a little solemn, maybe. Solemn and gay, and young and old, and happy and sad. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

“It’s love that does it, I suppose,” she said.

”That old thing; we’ve never talked about it much, have we? About love itself, I mean?”

He smiled a little, “We never had to.”

“I’d sort of like to—now,” she said. “Do you mind? I’d like to try to tell you how I feel before tomorrow happens.”

“Will it be any different after tomorrow?”

“No, but I may not be able to talk about it then. It may go down somewhere deep inside, below the talking level.”

“All right,” he said. “Tell me about love. “

. . . She leaned back clasping her hands around her knees, the moonlight bright and ecstatic on her face.

“Oh, it’s so many things. Waltzing in the dark; waiting for the phone to ring, opening the box of flowers. It’s holding hands in a movie; it’s humming a sad little tune; it’s walking in the rain; it’s riding in a convertible with the wind in your hair. It’s the quarreling and making up again. It’s the first warm drowsy thought in the morning and the last kiss at night.”

She broke off suddenly and gave him a desolate look. “But it’s all been said before, hasn’t it?”

“Even if it has,” he told her gently, “that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Maybe I’m just being silly,” she said doubtfully. “Is that the way love seems to you?”

He did not answer for awhile. At last he said, “I might add a little to your definition.”

“You mean you wouldn’t change it?”

“No, just add to it.”

She put her chin in her hands. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

He took out the pen she had given him and looked at it for a moment. “You said it was a lot of little things. You’re right. I could mention a few that don’t have much glitter. But they have an importance that grows. ”

She watched his lean fingers begin to move. “Tell me,” she said.

“Oh, coming home to somebody when the day is ended—or waiting for somebody to come home to you. Giving, or getting, a word of praise when none is really deserved. Sharing a joke that nobody else understands. Planting a tree together and watching it grow. Sitting up with a sick child. Remembering anniversaries. Do I make it sound terribly dull?”

She did not say anything; she shook her head.

“Everything you mentioned is part of it,” he went on. “But it’s not all triumphant, you know. It’s also sharing disappointment, and sorrow. It’s going out to slay the dragon, and finding the dragon too much for you, and running away—but going out again the next day. It’s the little chips of tolerance that you finally knock off the granite of your ego, not saying, ‘I told you so,’ not noticing the dented fender on the family car. It’s the gradual acceptance of limitations—your own as well as others. It’s discarding some of the ambitions you had for yourself and planting them in your children.” His voice trailed off into the glistening night.

“Are you talking” she asked finally, “about living or loving?”

“You’ll find,” he said, “there’s not much of one without the other.”

“When—when did you learn that?”

“Quite a while ago, before your mother died.” His hand touched her shining hair.

“Better get to bed now, baby. Tomorrow’s your big day. ”

She clung to him suddenly. “Oh, Daddy, I’m going to miss you so.”

“Nonsense,” he said gruffly, “I’ll be seeing you all the time. Run along now.” But after she had gone he sat there for a long time, alone in the moonlight.

In social studies, we were talking about different kinds of religions and churches. It seemed like everybody was really mixed up about Christian beliefs. A boy asked the teacher how a Mormon can be a Christian. The teacher asked if there were any Mormons in the class who could answer the question. I wasn’t afraid to raise my hand, even though I knew that I was the only Church member in the class. I said, “A Mormon is a type of Christian.”
Then a girl asked, “Did Jesus die for our sins, or for something else?”
I said, “Jesus suffered for our sins before He was crucified, and He died so that we could be resurrected.”
Another boy said, “My priest told me that Mormons don’t believe that Jesus is the Son of God.”
I said, “That isn’t true. We do believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that He is the Savior.”
Then all the other kids had questions. The teacher did say that LDS stands for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That was the first time that I was able to answer all the questions with ease. I was happy to have had a chance to share the gospel with others. I hope that someday they will feel the Holy Ghost near and understand what I told them.

As he visited ward members, Dale sometimes took Ashley with him. One day they visited a less-active member. “I knew that no one would be able to turn away this adorable little girl at my side,” remembers Elder Renlund. He knocked on the door of a man who had angrily dismissed Bishop Renlund’s counselor sometime earlier.
When the man opened the door, he was so large he filled the doorframe. He glared at Bishop Renlund. Four-year-old Ashley blurted out, “Well, can we come in or what?”
Surprisingly, the man said, “I guess so. Come in.”
When they were seated inside, the man told Bishop Renlund he did not believe the Church was true, nor did he believe in Jesus Christ. He kept talking angrily while Ashley played with a toy. Finally she got off her chair, cupped her hand to her father’s ear, and whispered loudly, “Daddy, tell him the truth.”
So he did. Bishop Renlund bore his testimony to the man. He recalls, “The man’s attitude softened, and the Spirit came into his home.”

But one man on the land watched them—with his eyes hardly comprehending, with his camera clicking like a telegraph, and long afterward with a notebook and pencil, remembering. Kent Keller, of Orem, Utah, had seen golden eagle courtship flights before, but like any reasonable person, he could only fully believe it when he was seeing it.
Perhaps it is partly this aura of impossibility that draws Kent to eagles, just as it has drawn poets, prophets, and emperors for centuries.
Actually, it all started with snakes. From the day he was born, Kent seemed to delight in all wild creatures, but snakes were his first real love. As a very young boy, he turned his backyard into a reptile menagerie with cages full of crawling snakes, gila monsters, horned toads, lizards, and just about any other tail-twitching belly-crawler he could find. As soon as he learned to read, he went hunting for reptiles in the library too.
But a new love was waiting in the wings, and at 12 years of age, Kent was to have his eyes snatched from the delightful snake-harboring ground to the wide, blue, eagle-bearing sky.
One day on a camping trip Kent’s Scoutmaster pointed at a dead cottonwood tree and said, “Hey, guys, there are two eagles!” The two golden eagles perched on skeletal limbs burned their image into an unexposed surface of Kent’s brain and filled his life’s appointment book all in an instant. He came. He saw. He was conquered.
But finding eagles isn’t all that easy until you learn where to look, and it was two years before Kent was able to make a house call. One rainy afternoon in early May he stepped onto a tiny protruding ledge that overhung more than 150 feet of sheer emptiness. As he peered over the edge, the sun burst through the rain clouds, spotlighting the golden hackles of a female eagle on her nest about ten yards down. Seeing Kent, she soared silently away but left behind two eaglets who sat cheeping at him in a blaze of downy sunshine.
Kent says of that instant: “At that moment I was so inspired by the beauty and majesty of the eagles that I felt more alive myself. The air smelled fresher, and the stream far below sparkled more brightly than before. I had simply opened my eyes and had really seen and felt what was around me.”

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled stop at a mining community named Mt. Isa. As we entered the small airport at Mt. Isa, a woman and her two children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my two children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared lessons and bore testimony.

Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly the loudspeaker announced a thirty-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has just been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to The Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.

We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.

Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had made on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow.”

One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and muffled sobs and marked by the sight of tears streaming from every eye.

On an average Rexburg summer day, my family went out for a drive exploring the back roads of Madison County. There was, of course, the wind and sun, and it was dry and dusty. We drove up and down the dirt roads of the potato farms. It can be fun with three children under five in car seats. The ride was an inexpensive roller coaster, a thrill ride that suddenly came to a stop with a thump-thump-thump. I pulled the new-to-us minivan over to the side of the dirt road and discovered that we had a flat tire.

We got the three children out of the van. We moved the children well off to the side of the road, where my wife could safely watch them. I began the process of changing the tire. I found the jack under the front hood, but I could not find the spare tire. It never occurred to me that I didn't know how to find the tire on our new van until I found myself needing the information. It was frustrating not to know. I looked for removable panels anywhere I could think of but still could not find the spare tire. Confused, I resorted to the user manual. It took a few minutes to discover that the spare was located underneath the van, a location that I had not considered.

With a few more minutes invested in studying the drivers manual, I found that the spare tire could be lowered using a bolt mechanism in the back of the van. By using the handle of the jack, I turned the bolt, and the tire descended from the secret location.

I began turning the bolt and let the cable out until the tire reached the ground. As soon as the tire touched the ground, I reached underneath the van and tried to get it. It only came partway out. It was then that I realize that I hadn't let out enough cable to remove the tire. I returned to the bolt mechanism and let out enough cable to get the tire all the way out from under the van.

From this point, changing the tire veered into familiar territory: loosening lug nuts, jacking up the vehicle, removing the flat tire, replacing the tire with the spare, lug nuts, lowering the jack, and tightening the lug nuts.

Once the tire was on, we were ready to go. I put the flat tire and the tools in the back of the van, buckled all three children back into their car seats, situated myself behind the wheel, and started off once again exploring the back-road roller coaster of Madison County.

Not far down the road, there was a metallic clinking sound. I looked in my mirrors and discovered that I was dragging the spare-tire cable. The hardware that held the spare tire in place was bouncing down the road like an action figure in Napoleon Dynamite. Once again, I pulled over, found the jack handle, and reeled in the cable. Now we were off to finish our ride.

On another night, I found myself back in my van headed for the emergency room at the University of Utah. It was rainy, cold, and dark. It was one of those wet nights where the water on the road seemed to absorb all of the light from the headlights. My wife was driving, and I was doing my best to distract myself from the pain. As we rounded the curve on the highway in Utah near Lagoon, we started to hear a thump-thump-thump. It became apparent that we once again had a flat tire. The tire needed to be fixed. I was able to change the tire in less than 10 minutes. I even knew that I needed to retract the cable.

This experience was humbling in a different way. I learned something that I did not know I needed to know. I understood that "all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things." I was given the opportunity to learn how to change a tire on a pleasant day, with full health, so I could change a tire on a rainy night with compromised health. The Lord blessed me with knowledge that He knew I needed to have.

Some years ago one of the kindest and most loved men to live on the earth died. I speak of Louis C. Jacobsen. He ministered to those in need, he helped the immigrant to find employment, and he delivered more sermons at more funeral services than any other person I have known.
One day while in a reflective mood, Louis Jacobsen told me of his boyhood. He was the son of a poor Danish widow. He was small in stature, not particularly handsome—easily the object of his classmates’ thoughtless jokes. In Sunday School one Sabbath morning, the children made fun of his patched trousers and his worn shirt. Too proud to cry, tiny Louis ran from the chapel, stopping at last, out of breath, to sit and rest on the curb that ran along one of the main streets of Salt Lake City. Clear water flowed along the gutter next to the curb where Louis sat. From his pocket he took a piece of paper that contained the outlined Sunday School lesson and skillfully shaped a paper boat, which he launched on the flowing water. From his hurt boyish heart came the determined words, “I’ll never go back.”
Suddenly, through his tears Louis saw reflected in the water the image of a large and well-dressed man. Louis turned his face upward and recognized George Burbidge, the Sunday School superintendent. “May I sit down with you?” asked the kind leader. Louis nodded affirmatively. There on the curb sat a good Samaritan ministering to one who surely was in need. Several paper boats were made and launched while the conversation continued. At last the leader stood and, with a boy’s hand tightly clutching his, they returned to Sunday School. Later Louis himself presided over that same Sunday School. Throughout his long life of service, he never failed to acknowledge the traveler who rescued him along a Jericho Road.

The other story that I would like to tell you in conclusion came out of Arabia many years ago. A horseman was riding across the desert at night, and as he went through a dried-up riverbed a voice out of the darkness commanded him to halt and dismount, which he did. Then the voice commanded him to fill his pockets with the pebbles at his feet, which he did. And then the voice commanded him remount and ride on, which he did. And as he rode out through the darkness the voice said to him, “At sunrise you will be both sad and glad.” At sunrise he looked in his pockets and found that the pebbles he had picked up were diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls. He was very glad and very sad. He was very glad that he had taken as many as he had, and he was very sad that he had not taken a lot more.

I would suggest that to all of us there will someday come a time when we will be delighted. We are going to be so pleased that we have lived in this magnificent latter day when the gospel has been restored, a time when there is no question about what the Lord wants us to do and what would make our lives successful. And when we have a great university like Brigham Young University, we can have as much education as we desire in any field.

We associate with some of the greatest men that ever lived upon the earth. I read a newspaper item the other day that said that eighty percent of all the scientists who have ever lived upon the earth are alive now. And certainly the Lord did not save his greatest scientists to come forth in this magnificent day only to bring forth religious leaders that were second-rate. Those who lead us in the Church are among the greatest spirits who have ever lived upon this earth. I am sure of this, for as the Prophet Joseph Smith said, “Every man who has a calling to minister to the inhabitants of the world was ordained to that very purpose in the Grand Council of heaven before this world was” (Joseph Fielding Smith, comp., Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 365).

That means that Spencer W. Kimball was presented by the Lord in the council of heaven and was voted upon by all of us to come here to be the prophet of this last dispensation and this particular period, to increase the missionary work and the effectiveness of the Church in other areas. I am sure that all of us were there and that all of us voted for him; and then we ourselves were voted upon and approved to come here and be assistants to him, because he is only one man. After all, he is the head, the director, but he needs a lot of hands and feet and minds and spirits to go and do the missionary work, do the genealogical work, run the financial affairs of Church and government and nation, and do all the other work. The Lord has said that to him everything is spiritual, and I am sure that it is true.

We have come here in this great day, and someday we are going to be tickled to pieces—simply delighted that we have had the opportunity of living in this great period. Yet probably all of us are going to be awfully sad as well—sad that we did not take greater advantage of our opportunities to live up at the top of our condition and be the kind of people that the Lord would be proud of.

One day I was visiting my brother and sister-in-law, and it got dark before I left. I had quite a distance to walk to reach the bus stop. This was March 1992, and it was very cold with a strong wind. My baby was squirming as I carried him. I walked backwards many times so the wind would hit me and not my baby.
I became sad as I thought about how I was freezing, walking with my baby, while my ex-husband had our car. I started thinking about how cruel life had been to me and felt a great weight in my heart. I started to cry like a child. I looked around and saw I was alone, so I cried to God out loud, “Heavenly Father, help me find the light.”
Finally I arrived at the bus stop, and when the bus came I sat in the front seat as I always did. When I looked to my left, I saw two young men in white shirts and ties. One of them came up to me and said to me in Spanish that was quite limited, “You too speak Spanish?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“You desire to receive the gospel of Jesus Christ?” he asked.
These words were wonderful to me. The gospel of Jesus Christ. I had investigated several churches, and in none of them had I heard this beautiful turn of phrase. I had always heard the word, the gospel, or the good news. So I very happily gave them my address and phone number.
I started taking the discussions from the missionaries, and in June 1992 I was baptized and confirmed. I will never forget that very special day. Before entering the waters of baptism I could feel a great weight, as if I were walking with feet of lead. But when I came out of the water, I felt like I was flying in the air. And when the missionaries placed their hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, a warm feeling entered my body, and I was filled with a peace I had never felt before. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. To my surprise I realized I was crying not from pain or sadness but for the great joy and peace in my heart.
Some months after my baptism I was called to serve in the nursery and then as a Primary teacher. A year later I received my endowment. I also met a great man at church. In September 1994 we were sealed in the Toronto Canada Temple. Three years later we were blessed with a beautiful son.
I continue to serve in Church callings, and I share my testimony of the gospel with all my loved ones. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes from the heavens in all its glory and that through this gospel we can be transformed if we are obedient to the Lord’s commandments.

My first brush with the priesthood was when I was baptized. I was baptized in an irrigation canal in the little town of Oakley, Idaho. I was with my friends on the bank of that irrigation canal. We had on our bib swimming suits, which consisted of bib overalls with the legs cut out so you wouldn’t sink and holes cut in the pockets. We had never seen a swimming suit made out of knit or of other fabric. My father came out from the First Ward meetinghouse with his counselors. He was carrying a chair, and he put the chair on the side of the irrigation ditch. My father said, “David, come on over here; we’re going to baptize you.”

I dove in the canal and swam over to the other side, shivering. It was in September and a little cold, and young boys get the shivers, you know, when you have only bib overalls on. My father got down into the canal. As I remember, he didn’t take his shoes off or change anything but was just in his regular clothes. He showed me how to hold my hands, and then he baptized me. After I came up out of the water, we both crawled up on the bank of the canal. I sat in the chair, and they put their hands on my head and confirmed me a member of the Church. After that I dove in the canal and went over on the other side and joined my friends.

This was my first experience, really, with the priesthood.

Dad Knew Mormons—I brought a signed statement from my dad to the elders giving his approval for my baptism. He used to know some Latter-day Saints. He said you have to be a missionary if you join their church.
My Interview—I was interviewed tonight for baptism. It was a relief to find that the elders had only kidded me about taking a written test. I read the pamphlets a few extra times so I wouldn’t be tripped up. I told the district leader that the discussions were like the lifting of a veil, like I had heard the story before. The gospel contains many teachings that I have come to believe over the years, such as a literal, tangible, concerned Heavenly Father. I took the discussions so fast that I have to wait till my assigned baptismal date.
April 27—I was baptized tonight. My family attended the service, as did many of the branch members. This is the cleanest feeling I have known in my entire life. The warm, friendly attitude of the members here is still one of the amazing things about this church.

BARBARA: I have a friend I am really close to at school. We were both trying out for something. We worked together, and helped each other, and we even prayed for each other. Then talking with her the other day, I found out she isn’t a member of our church. She is a Buddhist! I was so surprised! The whole time I had been treating her like a Mormon. We had become really close; she came up to me one day, started crying, and told me how much she appreciated me. And I thought, if we could only treat everyone as if he were a member, then we’d have no problems.

It was the very first day in December, and although there was a light blanket of snow covering the grass and fields, the sidewalks were bare and dry. The air was nippy, and anyone outside could see his own cloud of warmth dispel the chill when he spoke.
Down the large staircase, warm within the Johnson house, hurried Cindy. She was pulling on the red and blue striped stocking cap Grandmother had given her. As Cindy reached the landing, Mom greeted her from the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Mom,” Cindy said. “Can I go out and make a snowman before breakfast?”
“You certainly may,” Mom said.
“Call me when Dad comes down for breakfast, OK, Mom?” With that, Cindy grabbed her blue parka from behind the door, put it on, pulled on her mittens, and disappeared out the door.
Cindy huffed and puffed as she pushed the fat middle section of the snowman up onto the bottom mound. As she stepped back, she saw a small boy standing near the hedge that divided her yard from the neighboring field. “Hello,” Cindy called, waving to him.
The boy threw a snowball that landed by the half-built snowman. Cindy noticed that he made his snowball with bare hands that were very red and that his jacket needed a few patches. He wasn’t wearing boots or any kind of hat.
“Come on over,” Cindy called out.
When the boy only threw another snowball, Cindy decided that she should reply. She tossed a snowball, and it hit the boy’s leg. He turned and ran away.
Cindy went back to her snowman and began to form its head. When she mounted the ball atop the others, she said, “Well, hello there, Mr. Snowman. I’ll be right back.”
Soon she brought a scarf and a hat and placed them on the snowman. Cindy could see the little boy peeking over the hedge again. She pretended not to notice him as she walked slowly around to the backyard, looking for rocks to use for the snowman’s nose, eyes, and mouth. When she returned with the stones, she saw a large red button pressed into the center of the snowman’s face. It made a splendid nose.
“Oh!” Cindy exclaimed loudly. “You already have a nose. If I give you a mouth, will you tell me where you got it?” She pushed in some small stones in a crooked row across the snowman’s face, forming a mouth. “Now are you going to talk to me?” she asked as she stuck in two larger stones for his eyes.
When she stood back to admire her finished product, a snowball flew over her head and hit the snowman’s hat, knocking it down over one eye. Cindy turned suddenly and ran after the boy. She chased him around the corner and down the block, until he ducked out of sight.
Cindy returned home to eat breakfast.
“Cindy, the snowman looks terrific,” Mother said, looking through the kitchen window.
“Yes, you did a great job on him,” Dad agreed. “By the way,” he added, “today’s the first day of December. That means that the Christmas season is upon us. Have you finished your Christmas wish list?”
“No, not yet,” Cindy replied as she picked up her glass of juice. “Dad, do you go home teaching to that family that just moved in on Second North?”
“Yes. The Smith’s moved here from Idaho, and they have a boy a year or so younger than you. Why? Have you met them?”
“Not really, but I think I’ve seen the boy. Are they very poor?”
“Well, their father was supposed to work for the college, but his job fell through. He hasn’t found any work yet.”
“That’s too bad,” Mom commented, “especially with the holiday season just about here.”
Thursday afternoon Cindy took the long way home from school. She walked slowly along Second North. There was a small house with large trees in front of it and a broken-down fence around the yard. When she came to a gap in the fence, she saw a small snowman with a large red button nose looking back at her. It had a crooked pebble smile, just like her snowman. The little boy was playing alone on the porch.
“Hello,” Cindy called out, but the boy turned and slipped quickly into the house.
Puzzled, Cindy walked slowly on down the street. When she was almost home, a snowball flew past her head. She spun around but couldn’t see anyone. She walked a little farther, and when a snowball hit her in the back, she kept walking. A third snowball whizzed past her arm. Cindy ducked out of sight when she reached the hedge, then watched the boy peer around cautiously as he came her way. Just before he reached the hedge, he stopped, stood still for a moment, then turned and started back. Cindy sprang from behind the hedge and grabbed his sleeve. The boy tried to run, but she had a firm grip on his jacket. He looked up at her, and his bottom lip quivered.
Cindy smiled at him. “My name is Cindy,” she said. “My dad is your home teacher. Do you want to come to my house for some cookies?” The boy nodded, and then he smiled too.
Cindy let go of his coat, and they went to her house together. Soon, full of cookies and milk, the boy was answering all of Cindy’s questions.
Later Cindy told Mom, “Jason’s five years old, and I gave him my last year’s galoshes.”
After she had made a friend of Jason, Cindy started walking the long way home from school every day. And Jason waited by the fence for her every day and walked partway home with her.
A few days before Christmas Cindy and Jason were playing together. “I’m going Christmas shopping with my mom this afternoon,” Cindy told her friend.
“Oh,” was all Jason said.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Cindy asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not completely Christmas this year,” Jason answered.
Cindy looked surprised. “But it’s nearly here. You’d better decide soon.”
“Oh, I guess I’ll ask for a new coat or maybe a truck, but Mom says that we won’t be having much Christmas this year. She’s sad that we can’t buy even a Christmas tree. Because it won’t be completely Christmas this year, I might not ask for anything at all.”
Later, when Cindy was shopping with her mother, she was drawn to a window display, where a train chugged past a pond and went through a tunnel. As she watched it, she remembered the look on Jason’s face when he’d talked about his mother and Christmas, and suddenly the toys and other things that she’d seen weren’t so important.
On the way home her mother asked her which things she had liked best. “I don’t know, Mom,” Cindy said slowly. “I saw toys and books and some neat T-shirts and a lot of things I liked, but what I want most is for it to be completely Christmas!”
“Completely Christmas?”
Cindy tried to explain. “It doesn’t seem as happy this year, because Jason isn’t having a real Christmas—you know, with a tree and everything.”
“I see,” Mom said. “Well, Dad and I would still like you to make out your wish list. We’ll work out some way so that Jason has a nice Christmas too.” She gave Cindy a squeeze.
When Cindy went upstairs to her room that night, she took some notebook paper from her drawer and wrote:
Christmas Wish List
A Christmas tree for Jason
A new coat and mittens for Jason
A train for Jason.
She took the list downstairs and said, “Mom, here’s my list.”
Mom read her list and smiled. “Cindy,” she said. “Your dad will be home soon, and I’m sure the two of you can go pick out a tree for the Smith’s.”
On Christmas day Cindy was awake soon after daylight. She put on warm clothes and went quietly down the stairs. On the chair where she always hung her stocking were two big boxes, wrapped just alike. One had her name on it, and Jason’s name was on the other box! She quickly opened hers and discovered the same train set that she had seen in the store window. Cindy hurriedly put on her boots and coat and hat. When she picked up Jason’s box, she saw something fall. Reaching down, she picked up two pairs of new warm mittens. One had a tag that read “Cindy”; the other tag read “Jason.”
“All right!” Cindy exclaimed. Looking up she saw her mother and father smiling at her.
Dad said, “Brother Smith said they’d managed to get a new coat for Jason, so we got mittens to match it.”
Cindy gathered up Jason’s gifts and scampered outside. When she got to Jason’s house, she put the gaily wrapped box on the front porch, placed the new mittens on top of the box, rang the doorbell, then raced home.
“Merry Christmas!” Cindy shouted, giving Mom and Dad both a big bear hug. As Cindy again opened and peeked into the box that held her new train, she imagined Jason’s face as he peeked into his box.
After Cindy and her parents exchanged gifts, she sorted through the goodies in her Christmas stocking. Then she heard her mother call, “Come help me stuff the turkey, Cindy. We’re having company for dinner.”
“Company?”
“It’s a Christmas present for all of us,” Mother said. “The Smith’s are coming, and we’re celebrating Mr. Smith’s new job!”
“Hurray!” Cindy shouted. “Now it really is completely Christmas!”

“I first learned about the Church welfare program in Dad’s store, where a part of the back room served as the pickup station for needy Church members. The welfare program had just begun, and supplies were meager—a few sacks of flour, some potatoes, several grapefruits that were usually withered. There were eight or ten food items, and that was all. I often remember Dad saying, “That isn’t good enough’ as he filled the welfare sacks to be picked up. Then he’d add to the sacks some of his own commodities from the front of the store. He taught me a great deal about giving.

To explain how this university blesses lives, I would like to begin my remarks by sharing a story about a young boy who grew up in the boundless, large, flat, and unforested grassland, known as steppes, in Mongolia.

On the far eastern edge of Mongolia, in a vast steppe where the horizon seems to stretch endlessly, a little boy grew up. In that wide-open land, when he was just seven years old, he began attending a school located 13 miles from his home. With no means of transportation other than his horse, he was required to ride to school through fierce snowstorms and bitter cold temperatures, sometimes reaching ?22°F and taking more than two hours to arrive.

Once at school, he lived in the school dorms, away from family, until the weekend, when he would ride home again. This continued for four years, until he was forced to leave school to help his parents herd livestock.

During summer breaks from school, the children from nearby families would come home, and joyful moments were shared with play and laughter—but these times always seemed far too short. When autumn arrived and school resumed, the neighboring children would return to the town to continue their education. Silence once again would settle in, and the boy would realize the endless loneliness of life in the middle of the boundless steppe. With no other choice, he learned to adapt to a nomadic life.

With no friends except sheep and horses, he spent his days with the herd, enduring wind and storms and protecting the herd from wolves. Yet, like other children, he imagined himself attending school, laughing and playing with many friends. For that dream, he offered prayers to a Higher Power—God.

He entered school shortly after Mongolia transitioned to a democratic society. Under the new government’s policy, the Cyrillic alphabet, which had been used for 50 years, was abolished, and the traditional Mongolian script was revived and taught to all children. However, soon after he left school, the policy changed again, reverting to Cyrillic. As a result, he suddenly found himself illiterate. It felt as if the door to his dream of returning to school had slammed shut before him.

Rather than giving in to despair, he decided to teach himself the Cyrillic alphabet. After long days of hard labor, by the dim light of a candle, he copied letters from newspapers, and during the day, while herding sheep, he practiced writing letters in the air. In this way, he continued to educate himself. Seven years after leaving school, at the age of eighteen, the boy passed the entrance exam for high school and reopened the door to his dream.

God promised in Joshua 1:5: “…I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” [1] Just as the Lord led Moses and the Israelites through the wilderness; He likewise guided the boy and blessed him far beyond anything he could have imagined.

After graduating from high school and moving to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, to attend college, he met missionaries, accepted the good news of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and at church, found his closest friend—his eternal companion. That little boy who grew up in the endless steppe now stands before you. My life is a clear testimony of how deeply Heavenly Father loves His children and how He blesses and guides us.

After learning about BYU–Hawaii and the IWORK program, my growing passion for education motivated me to set a new goal—to pursue higher education abroad in a safe and supportive environment. As a newly married couple and a young parent, meeting the university’s requirements and becoming financially prepared required sacrifice, patience, and faith. The preparation process took five years before I was admitted.

Obtaining an American visa tested our faith even further. By then, our family had grown to four, and we were denied at our first interview. With limited resources but renewed trust in the Lord, we paid the visa fee again and reapplied. One week before orientation, our visa was finally approved—a tender reminder that God’s timing is always perfect, even when the path feels uncertain.

The journey to BYU–Hawaii was not straight or easy, but it was guided. Looking back, I see the hand of the Lord shaping us through every delay, rejection, and sacrifice, strengthening our faith and preparing us for the blessings that lay ahead.

Brigham Young’s natural ability pushed him to the forefront. He was chosen one of the Camp’s captains. Frequently he preached. At times he was delegated to procure provisions. Always he closely observed Joseph Smith’s leadership and acquired experience. However, not all of the men yielded to Joseph’s leadership without murmuring. The difficulty of the march made weak-spirited men complain. “We had to be troubled with uneasy, unruly and discontented spirits,” Brigham Young recollected. “This was the first time we had ever travelled in the capacity of a large company … Brother Joseph led, counselled and guided the company, and contended against those unruly, evil disposed persons.” (Journal of Discourses 10:20.)

My mother loved that scripture and lived its principle. The greatest affliction of her life was the death of her husband, our father, after only 11 years of marriage. This changed her life and imposed great hardships as she proceeded to earn a living and raise her three little children alone. Nevertheless, I often heard her say that the Lord consecrated that affliction for her gain because her husband’s death compelled her to develop her talents and serve and become something that she could never have become without that seeming tragedy. Our mother was a spiritual giant, strong and fully worthy of the loving tribute her three children inscribed on her headstone: “Her Faith Strengthened All.”
The blessings of adversity extend to others. I know it was a blessing to be raised by a widowed mother whose children had to learn how to work, early and hard. I know that relative poverty and hard work are not greater adversities than affluence and abundant free time. I also know that strength is forged in adversity and that faith is developed in a setting where we cannot see ahead.

Only a week had passed since Heather’s baptism, and she felt miserable. She could still remember the fresh, clean feeling that had warmed her as her father helped her back up the steps of the baptismal font. I want to feel this good forever, she had thought at the time. Now she wondered if that happiness would ever return.
Earlier today, with her best friend, Susan, running after her, Heather had raced up the three front steps, into the house, and straight to the family room. Even snacks couldn’t have pulled them away from their plans for the afternoon. Dad had brought home a new space video game the night before, and Heather had been anxious to show Susan how she’d mastered it already. As they had burst into the family room, Heather’s redheaded brother, Sean, was sprawled sideways in a chair, watching TV. He’d just finished gluing together a model airplane, which now rested on the small table in front of him.
“Susan and I want to play the video game now,” Heather had announced. “Will you please turn the TV off?”
“Just let me finish watching this program,” Sean had answered.
“But we can’t,” Heather had wailed. “Susan has to be home in just a few minutes.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I was here first,” Sean had said testily, “and I want to see the end of this show.”
Stiffening, Heather had said, “You always get here first; it’s not fair!” She had headed for the TV to turn it off. But before she’d gotten there, she had seen the newly completed model airplane. And before she’d thought twice about it, Heather had snatched the plane and thrown it to the floor. Bits of broken wood had flown in every direction. She hadn’t waited for Sean’s response but had grabbed Susan’s hand and said, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Now shame clutched at Heather. She longed to tell Sean that she was sorry that she had destroyed his model airplane. Apologizing wouldn’t restore it, though.
Heather couldn’t even manage her welcome smile and hug for Dad when he strolled in the front door from the office. The most she could muster was a quiet “Hi.”
Dad gave her a squeeze anyway and asked, “What’s wrong with my girl?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
Before any words could struggle out, tears spilled from Heather’s eyes. Her sobs changed to sniffles as she told the whole story. It surprised her that telling Dad helped ease some of the misery.
Dad listened until she finished. “Well,” he said calmly, “you must feel ashamed.”
Heather looked down at her knees and nodded.
“I’m disappointed in the way you’ve acted,” Dad went on, “but your feelings of shame are an important part of repentance. We can never really repent until we are sorry for what we’ve done. I can see that you really are sorry about the way that you acted. Now, what do you think you should do next?”
“I guess first I should tell Sean that I’m sorry,” Heather answered.
“I think that that is good idea. There is someone else whom you need to apologize to as well, Heather. Do you know who He is?”
“Heavenly Father. And I’ve already done that, Dad. I prayed just a little while ago and asked Him to forgive me.”
“That’s good,” Dad said. “I can see that you know a lot about repentance already. Now there’s one more important thing that you need to do.” He explained to her that she needed to make restitution by replacing Sean’s model airplane.
After apologizing to Sean, Heather went to check the contents of her bank. Three one-dollar bills were rolled and stuffed into the plastic money jar. Dad had said that it would probably cost at least five dollars to buy a new model kit, and just to make sure that she would have enough, Heather planned to earn at least three more dollars.
The next week was a busy one for Heather. She tended her younger brother whenever Mom needed her to. Mom also paid her to clean out some kitchen drawers and cupboards and to sweep the garage. Her neighbor, Mrs. Briggs, was glad to have Heather walk her dog during the week, which added to her earnings. She helped Dad, too, by raking the lawn and weeding the flower bed.
After supper on Friday she eagerly counted her money, “One, two, three, four, five, six.” She fingered the wrinkled bills carefully before returning them to the plastic jar. “… twenty, thirty, thirty-five—six dollars and thirty-five cents!” she cried triumphantly, pushing the last nickel back into the bank. With the bank held tightly in her hand, Heather ran to find her dad. He had promised to take her to buy the new airplane kit as soon as she was ready.
When they returned from the store, Heather could hardly wait to find Sean. She pulled a sack from behind her back and held it out to him. Slowly he took it from her and asked, “What’s this?”
“Just open it. You’ll see,” Heather replied.
Sean pulled the new model kit from the sack. As he reached in and pulled out a candy bar, too, Heather glowed with almost the same sensation she’d had when she’d been baptized. She felt almost like a balloon ready to pop as she watched the smile on Sean’s face widen into a grin.
“Thanks,” he said. “Want to help me make it?”